


Umwälzung

by thebeatbuddha



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Betrayal, F/F, F/M, Heavy Angst, Love, Lust, M/M, Multi, Not Epilogue Compliant, Unresolved Sexual Tension, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 19:40:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15150404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebeatbuddha/pseuds/thebeatbuddha
Summary: "They've got you on a tight leash, Granger- far, far tighter than mine and if you're not careful, it's going to turn into a noose and you won't even know it,"





	1. part one: separation is like salt, without the sun

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Harry Potter and don't claim to know everything about the HP canon. I'm learning as I go. This story is set in the late second year of the Second Wizarding War (1997), does not really follow Canon and takes a lot of freedom in terms of plot, timeline and characters. The War has been on for nearly two years now (it began in 1995) with most of the Ministry of Magic (England) on the brink of collapse and the Order of the Phoenix in near-tatters as a defensive force. Voldermort's Loyalists are on the rise, targeting Muggle London and areas of Wizarding Europe, gaining absolute power in various parts of these regions and also establishing strongholds overseas in the U.S.A, Egypt, China and New Zealand. Hogwarts has been destroyed (the Siege of Hogwarts, an important event in this story, took place at the end of 1996) and the Resistance (Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore's Army and various other allies) operates out of covert safehouses across Europe, often in conjunction with Muggle allies and their help.
> 
>  
> 
> (This story has been posted on my fanfiction.net account too)

**Title:** Umwälzung

[ u _m•wäl•zung / German / :noun: /_ meanings: _upheaval,_ a _complete over-turn, a radical change ]_

_._

**Part One** **:** separation is like salt, without the sun

.

"All moral rules must be tested by examining whether they tend to realize ends that we desire. I say ends that we desire, not ends that we _ought_ to desire...Since all behaviour springs from desire, it is clear that ethical notions can have no importance except as they influence desire. They do this through the desire for approval and the fear of disapproval. These are powerful social forces and we shall naturally endeavour to win them to our side if we wish to realize any social purpose."

\- _Bertrand Russell_ , Ethics: Selected Writings

.

"In the wilderness of heartbreak and a desert of despair  
Evil's clarion of justice shrieks a cry of naked terror  
Taking babies from their mamas, leaving grief beyond compare

So if you see the vulture coming, flying circles in your mind  
Remember there is no escaping for he will follow close behind  
Only promise me a battle, battle for your soul and mine."

\- _Gil Scott-Heron, verse III and IV,_ Your Soul and Mine

.

 **Song:** Me and the Devil by Gil Scott-Heron

* * *

When Harry is _Taken_ \- Taken with a capital **T** because it's Voldermort's disgusting band of Loyalists and such emphasis distinguishes one grief from another - when Harry is Taken, she's on the other side of the country in one of the last safehouses.

Read: too fucking far to do anything.

She's standing on the porch by herself - she's almost always left to herself these days and They can afford to do so because their boundary charms are impenetrable and Theodore fucking Nott is her watchdog. For all the Order's holier-than-thou morality, she's no less than a Prisoner here and as each day passes, it seems as if this game they're playing with Voldermort and his dark pathetic, prejudiced forces just gets dirtier and more dangerous, more despairing.

The sky is the kind of soft pink that makes her catch her breath, afternoon slowly having slipped up into evening and it's the rustling of leaves right at the edge of the perimeter that makes her stomach knot anxiously. It's unlikely that the Death-Eaters have any idea where she is, or where Theodore is, for that matter - but she can't put away the possibility that it's _them_ and not the Order, no matter how many times messengers arrive in the most standardized and uniform ways. The rustling of leaves. A whizzing of the invisible-to-the-eye barrier. Jarring explosion of blue light. The characteristic swell of smoke. And then the abominable robes all Order members and allies are now wearing appearing in a flash. Relief and recoil both.

While the leaves are rustling again - she notices that there is no flash of light, nor any of the static sound she's grown used to every time the fence is broken by a Recognized Wizard/Witch. She's about to open her mouth, to yell for Theodore to get his fucking arse out here and protect her like he's meant to do because that's how helpless They've made her, that's what They've done to her and she hates it, she really does but she knows how it is far more important for her to stay alive. To get to -

There's a bright flash, soundless and stunning- pink fritters of light spiralling away into the trees and she's ducking, raising an arm to cover her eyes. Her knees feel like they might buckle and the loud clapping noise is honest-to-God terrifying. Her legs are unsteady and she's got the name on her tongue, she's just about to-

"Hermione!"

It's Kingsley fucking Shacklebolt. In those hideous fucking robes, stained...with what looks like blood? There's Ginny too, appearing through the smoke, then Neville and behind them all, Remus Lupin. Haggard and tired-looking, as if they've just made it out of their one of their Raids. Ginny looks like she might be bleeding - her face is far more gaunt and pale than before, Neville's hand is wrapped tight in hers and Lupin is the picture of a wreck - clothes torn, splattered with blood and dust, eyes so blank she can't meet them for more than a second.

A sudden movement to her right makes her flinch but it's only her fucking safekeeper- Theodore in his grey fucking sweater, wand raised, blurring into hair and limbs because he's moving that fast. And just as fast as his entry is, he comes to a jerking halt, taking in the sight that she can't still seem to understand.

As Ginny limps forward, grimacing - her pretty features caught between fury and fear - with Neville's arm for support, Shacklebolt trudges forward faster and Lupin brings up the rear, looking both left and right, furtively, as if they were being watched. Panic sets in dimly and she feels like she might fall backwards, right into the doorstep and through the ground into a empty vacuum and she is forgetting to be angry, she is forgetting because she's more afraid than anything else.

As if he senses that she's losing grip, Shacklebolt is speaking again - projecting his loud voice across the space. "Hermione, something's happened," He looks back at Lupin and some understanding seems to pass between them before he continues, "..Something really bad."

Theodore, like a good little servant - she thinks - is propelled into decorous action and runs down the steps, towards Neville and Ginny, muttering reassurances in the same diligent, obscenely sincere way with which he's always managed to placate her in the past three weeks. She stands there though, refusing to move, letting them all come to her.

Fleetingly, the sky beyond them all gives her a choppy view of the sun - dipping between the trees, almost in hiding, pale and sick-looking, without any of its usual alacrity, neither orange nor yellow but a mere clouded hint of light. Then they're all shuffling past her into the house and she has to step back to make sure she doesn't fall. Ginny's hair is matted with mud, she notices and there's a long scar down Neville's forearm that she thinks is new. Shacklebolt's robes seem to be drowning the man and he has a noticeable black eye. She catches sight of it in a blur as he walks past her, muttering to himself. It's only Lupin who stops to look at her - as if to acknowledge something and his eyes are dangerously sad. It makes her uncomfortable - she hasn't seen them in weeks and weeks and now... _this_.

Her throat is dry and she can feel the anxiety rolling off of him in waves - his shoulders are slumped, his cheek badly scarred and he looks like he might say something.

"I'm sorry, Hermione,"

His voice is choked-up, tangled in itself, burdensome. It's not what she expects. She reels back as if slapped - an admission like _this_...there are _so many_ implications and then he's walking in and she's struggle to breathe because her mind flits between Harry and Ron, one grief to another, one grief to another, picture after picture which is really just memory after memory. The smell of clean shirts. Grimmauld Place. Fresh grass cut in the summer. The Burrow. Six feet in and six feet above. Body after body. One safehouse after the next. Chocolate frogs. The train journey. The siege of Hogwarts. Fire after fire. Reflected in Harry's glasses. Blood at Ron's mouth.

A loud sound from within the house shakes her out of it - probably just the fireplace or something - and she swallows thickly, tucking a hair behind her ear the way she used to, as a schoolgirl, in a simpler life. As much as it feels like the world is about to split around her, she takes one last look outside as if to reassure herself that she's still here and then, she's stepping inside, pulling the big white door shut behind her.

* * *

"The pureblood is the most magnificent and refined form of a witch - or for that matter, a wizard. Most clearly receptive to the complications of Magic and its inheritance, the pureblood surpasses the half-blood, the muggle and the squib in magical ability and control." She nods at him as he takes his usual seat right at the back. "...Following our previous lesson where we examined ancestry in depth, analysing various aspects of the purest British wizarding bloodlines - today, I thought it best to talk to you all a little more about purebloods and breeding. I will also touch upon on the Muggle problem briefly before wrapping up for the day."

The chair is stiff and he struggles to sit up straight - maybe he shouldn't have had so much to drink last night. He can't remember much of it either; did he go out with Blaise and Pansy again? Where had they gone? All the Wizarding establishments were usually shut down before midnight - an abrupt movement to the right derails his attempt to put together what happened the night before.

It's Pansy.

She's dressed in an impeccable set of dark, rich robes, her face far too impassive for him to read. She makes a beeline towards him, stopping only once to greet some of the newer recruits with a small, trained smile that he's seen many times before. She seems to be wearing gloves too - the formality of her attire suggests that she might have a meeting with the Inner Circle today. Does he have to be in attendance too? He can't remember - vaguely, he wonders if he looks as put-out as he's currently feeling. Exactly how much did he have to drink last night?

The lecture seems to continue in the background, a lilting hum that he can't bring himself to pay attention to - choosing instead to watch Pansy as she finally steps into the row in which he's sat. His robes feel stifling when she finally meets his gaze - her eyes are dark, indecipherable and he notices that her hair are shorter than he remembers. What the fuck happened last night?

Some of the audience turns to look at her, despite how quiet her entrance is - and he presumes that it's because of her position within the larger Circuit. She's a lethal Death-Eater, well-respected and just as well-established, perhaps even more so than him. That's why she's been asked to attend these classes with him- to keep an eye on the fresher recruits and spot the talent they require for the Next Phase. At some point, it might have bothered him - this clear preference for Pansy over him, especially since it was his Father's decision, but too much has happened for it to make a real difference to him. She's won this respect by sheer hard work and skill and maybe the Hogwarts' version of him might have singled her out as the competition but this is a war, this is a War and he's just a soldier and there's no room for juvenile irresponsibility.

She sits down beside him in a swarm of expensive robes and familiar perfume.

"Draco," She mutters in way of greeting, looking straight ahead in a detached, business-like manner.

It reminds him distantly of the Potions classroom - how they'd talk through their teeth to make sure nobody could hear them and the hazy memory makes his stomach flip nervously - all of it so long ago, in a different life. A simpler life.

Her thigh brushes against his just barely, years and years of understanding lodged there between them. He knows immediately that something is wrong - the tension rolls off her in shaking waves and when her hand jerks out to grab his, his suspicion is confirmed. Something happened last night - something….something….could it be Mother? Could it … his vision blurs momentarily and he wonders if he might throw up right there, in the middle of the fucking lecture like some insipid teenager who has no control over himself. As if she senses his physical discomfort - or just because she has known him too well for too long, she gives his hand a reassuring squeeze and he takes a long, shuddering breath to try to calm himself. Focus. Centre. Right here. Focus.

He looks at the side of her face finally, noting that fine dust of power on her pale skin - the darkened edges of her lashes, the faint pink of her mouth. There's definitely some kind of meeting.

"What happened last night?" Despite himself, he sounds scared - like his ten year old self, pathetic and cowardly, stuck in his bedroom because he was too much of a wimp to step outside and run into Father.

The feeling is thick and heavy on his tongue - a peculiar brand of self-hatred that tastes odd and familiar to him.

She sighs, letting her eyes follow the figure right at the front of the audience. "Harry Potter has been captured."

For a moment, he's absolutely sure that he hasn't heard her right.

"What?" It's a disbelieving hiss and causes her to look at him proper, full in the face - the terror is in her eyes, a shadow there, heavy and forlorn.

Then she's turning away and getting to her feet, tugging her hand from his as she makes her way out of the row, offering that trained smile at the expectant young faces. His head is spinning, the ground seems to be rising towards him - the blonde boy to his left is muttering something, new recruit, new face, new new, the War has been old, old old, all of it, there are flashes of red and then a long, brown leg curving over his hip, fuck fuck fuck fuck - he's on his feet, watching himself move from outside his body because he's certainly not in there. He almost trips over someone's feet - are those muggle sneakers? - and then he's walking quickly to the door, mechanical and polished in manner.

To anybody watching, there's nothing out of the ordinary here. He's often gotten up in the middle of the session to go out and catch a moment with one of the Informants. That's why Goyle nods at him and pulls open the door for him - the two of them thrown back to Hogwarts only for a brief second and then he's outside that blasted room, catching sight of Pansy leaning against the brick wall at some distance.

It takes all his strength and more to convince his body not to break into some obscene kind of running - seconds trickle by as he walks over to her in a measured, controlled manner. Malfoys are never to be found running around in corridors unless it's the Dark fucking Lord who has asked them to do so. Nothing beyond that one tall order can move them - Draco remembers all of his lessons, even in this hazy, paranoid state. Branded into him. Just as permanent as his Dark Mark. His mind isn't focusing on anything - the corridor tilts and the ground feels shaky beneath him and he curls his fingers into his palms, pressing his nails hard enough into the flesh to make it sting.

Pansy doesn't turn to look at him- her eyes are cast upwards and her jaw is clenched. He can tell just by how she's holding herself that she's really, really fucking stressed. He stops close to her and pinches the bridge of his nose - an old habit that has yet to leave.

"Pansy...we have only t-"

"Three minutes before the next round of patrol," She cuts in shakily, squeezing her eyes shut in such an open display of vulnerability that he feels like reaching out to her. "...I know, Draco, I know,"

He resists the urge to touch her and tries to focus on standing still, on being in control. "Is it true?"

Her eyes flash and her lips curl into a scornful frown. "Of course it is," She hisses furiously, as if affronted by the implication that she could be misinformed. "He was brought in an hour ago,"

His legs are jelly and his head is pounding - Harry fucking Potter captured? Taken in? How could this have happened? Something strange and wild rises in his chest, something he can't identify and he leans his shoulder against the wall to steady himself. Fuck. Fuck.

"Can't...fucking believe...Potter..captured? What a fucking dunce. Asswipe," Disbelief colours his fragmented speech and he's no longer sure if he can feel the ground beneath him. "...basically...won...we're...the Dark Lord.." His eyes widen as if the implications are only just revealing themselves to him-

"Draco," She snaps impatiently, tapping his cheek to get his attention. The turn of her mouth is dismal and he wants to laugh hysterically. "Draco, Draco, listen to me." Her eyes find his and there it is - that focus, those years and years between them, all of that love, all of it. "There's something else."

He can feel the hysteria climbing his veins and he fights it, he really does fight it - he needs to know what else...he does. Her fingers cup his chin, an old intimate gesture that still makes his stomach clench in apprehension and he looks and looks, trying to keep himself here with her. Just a little more. The two of them, always caught up in Something.

"We were sent out on a Raid last night, Draco," She begins finally and her voice is shaky, trembling. Are those tears? "...Blaise, you and I. To Muggle London. To a Muggle bar. We were meeting a contact there. The raid's brief was that we destroy the bar before returning home," She swallows thickly and she looks away. "..Draco...we were tricked. All three of us ended up really, really wasted and fucked up. Draco…" She looks at him and she's crying - her face swims before him and he's spinning. "..Draco, I found you with two Muggles this morning." He's sure the breath has been knocked out of him and her expression is so full of pain he think he might puke all over her. "..I think you had sex with them,"

* * *

When they do break the News to her - if you can call it that - it's Shacklebolt she launches herself at, in uncontrolled rage, hair flying.

It's almost comical because she doesn't even make it to him - Theodore's Stupefy hits her the moment she's off the couch and it's Ginny who flinches at the action, just as Neville finishes healing the cut at her abdomen. The spell has Hermione immobile, suspended in the air momentarily before it is broken and she falls to the ground like a rag doll with no motor control of its own. It's not painful - at least not physically so but she feels the bruise to her ego so sharply that she has to keep her eyes to the ground, trained on the carpet so that she can compose herself.

Ordinarily - she, the Brightest Witch of her Age, would have met that spell with a wandless one but They've kept her so far from Magic that she feels it slip away from her day by day, rendering her worthless in situations like this. She can feel the fury coming on - a hot white flash and that pounding in her head, as if some inside part of her is _finally_ going to explode but she curls her fingers into her palms and takes a long, shuddering breath to calm herself. Maybe attacking Shacklebolt isn't the best course of action - maybe outing herself so obviously as the Madwoman They've deemed her to be is not the most intelligent option. She has to breathe, she has to think - the two things can only happen together so she sucks in another calming breath, forcing her mind to focus on the small, intricate patterns on the soft carpet instead of flitting between HarryHarryHarryHarryHarryHarryHarry _HarryHarry and Ron._

"Come on up, Granger," Theodore's stuck his hand out to her and she realizes that he's standing right beside her, his shoes planted firmly on the mauve carpet.

Neville seems to clear his throat as she gets to her feet, pointedly refusing Theodore's fucking help - a snub to which he pays little attention, so blatantly indifferent that it might just piss her off. She catches Lupin's eye, the same dangerously sad look in them, as he leans back against the wall by the fireplace and she sits back down on the couch, at the furthest end. Theodore's on the other side, mute and impassive, wand at the ever-fucking-ready.

"How was Harry captured?" She's grateful for how level-headed she sounds, as if simply asking about an unforeseen change in the weather. She also knows that this side of her is what scares them all - she can tell this much just by how Ginny's gaze burns into her cheek.

But Hermione doesn't waver - something in her has curled up and shut down swiftly, impossibly and she's not going to give in to them or what they think of her. She has something to prove and she'll be damned if she lets her feelings get in the fucking way. Keeping her eyes on Shacklebolt, she leans back.

Languid. Reassured. Hardened. Like she was. Like she is.

"Well...Miss...Granger, you have to know-"

"Please don't apologize, Minister," She cuts in quietly, in the same tone. She spots Ginny's mouth curling into a sneer, as if the other witch would prefer an all-out hand-to-hand fight than a civil conversation. "We all know that there really isn't time for that,"

Perhaps in another time, before these long fucking weeks of imprisonment, before Ron and before Harry, before They put her in here and asked little Theodore Watchdog to guard her, Ginny and her had been friends. Real friends, who knew each other's hearts, who had each other's love. A warm comfort it had been, she remembers that clearly - how they'd both gone out on various raids together, having each other's back, looking out for the men they loved fiercely, knowing that each attack would only bring them closer together because that was _love_ and that was _goodness._

Now, they have nothing.

Before Shacklebolt can open his mouth to speak, Ginny stands up, swaying a little on her feet. Neville makes as if to reach for her but a curt nod from her stops that action mid-way. There are bright and furious tears in his eyes, Hermione notes and Ginny turns on her heel, walking over to the windows of the room.

"It was a sneak attack," Her voice trembles and her shoulders are stiff as she squares them, keeping her back to them all. "We were heavily outnumbered...Lupin, Neville, Shacklebolt, Harry and I. We'd conducted a raid a few streets down from that location - something about a Dark Forces safehouses where Voldermort had been sighted-" She sucks in a sharp breath here, and Hermione watches as she might have watched the news on the telly dispassionately. "- and Harry bullied his way into coming with us,"

She turns slightly, her auburn hair falling like a curtain to obscure most of her face. "You know how he is, Hermione," She says quietly, in defeat, her shoulders slumping.

Hermione can imagine Ginny's face right this very moment - the anguish she'd seen at Ron's funeral, it is one of the clearest pictures in her mind till date. Eyes bloodshot, mouth curled downwards, nose red and yes- the very same slump of her shoulders, the refusal to meet anybody's eyes. They may be too far from each other to ever find their way back again but Hermione has not forgotten and it seems as if Ginny has not either - even if she let Them strip her of Magic and took her wand, even if she let Them turn her into a worthless prisoner, even if she let Theodore fucking Nott be her watchdog. They both remember. One grief to another.

As if sensing that Ginny may not be able to continue talking, it's Lupin who speaks. "There were twenty Death-Eaters lying in wait when we reached the location. Some of the older ones - Lestrange, the Malfoys…" He casts a careful, measured glance at Theodore. "...Nott senior..and then newer recruits, far more powerful than we'd anticipated. It was Bellatrix's curse that hit Harry and we couldn't get to him because-"

"Because the new recruits were diverting you with duels," Theodore finishes simply, confidently as he might have drawn up the strategy himself.

She looks at him sharply but his garb of impassivity has yet to stray. Shacklebolt's wringing his hands and Ginny is a ghost at the window, healed of the lesser wound she's had inflicted upon her today. Hermione meets Neville's gaze for the briefest moment- clouded blue and sorrowful - before looking up at Lupin.

Professor Lupin at some point. Hogwarts, the relic of a past consumed too easily. The siege. Theodore Nott at the door of the Great Hall. Lupin roaring instructions. Ronald tripping over his own foot, that stupid git. All of it comes back to her when she looks at Lupin. And now, Harry too. One grief to another. She feels very little - only quiet, only thoughtful. Given that the most important and significant piece of their Endgame is now missing, she wonders what They might do.

She wonders - not too irrationally - if they might give her a Chance. If she'll be returned her Wand. If They've saved her for this part of the game, for when they're losing.

"I presume, Minister, that you have a plan?" Theodore's leaning forward, resting his elbows atop his knees. It might look intimidating if it weren't for the neutral tone of his voice. The sharp cut of his jaw is tense, his expression resolute - almost...bitter. "Because I most certainly betray the most powerful Dark Wizard only to have everything go to fucking shit."

There's an edge to his voice she hasn't heard before. Shacklebolt, it seems, has not either because he seems to sit up. Collecting himself perhaps. Returning to the present. From the corner of her eye, Hermione notes that Ginny's turned to face the room, her grimy face streaked with tears.

"We do have a plan," Shacklebolt says finally. "..And it involves you both."

There's a second of silence, as if even the safehouse is holding its breath. Then Lupin speaks.

"..And Malfoy,"

She can feel the blood rushing to her head and notices how Theodore flinches, as if he might have been punched. Ginny's shaking her head, saying something but it's too soft and Neville is disappearing down a tunnel.

"...Yes, Malfoy." Shacklebolt is nodding, his voice swimming through space to her. Finding its way to her. "..Draco Malfoy."

* * *

**# 0 7**

**_As composed by the Loyal Cabinet in the month of September, 1996_ **

**_Ratified by the Dark Lord in the month of October, in the year 1996, in a public meeting with the Collective_ **

**_._ **

**By Order of the Dark Lord and His Loyal Cabinet, the following is a mandate detailing the directives that all Death-Eaters and allies must submit to. Any violation of this Code of Conduct will result in extensive torture and an immediate death sentence, at the discretion of the Dark Lord.**

_1\. The Lord's servants must put the Lord and his Cabinet's orders before everything else, including their own families._

_2\. The Lord's servants must attend the weekly Lecture and partake in daily, compulsory Dark-Arts training in their respective Centres._

_3\. The Lord's Paired-servants must regularly copulate and meet their Supervisors every fortnight to confirm their regular and strict adherence to the Breeding Decree._

_4\. The Lord's servants must not shelter or aid traitors to their Cause or allies of the Resistance._

_5\. The Lord's servants must not maintain any form of contact with those persons/groups who set themselves against the Lord's political vision of a Muggle-free Wizarding community._

_6\. The Lord's servants must never interact with the Muggle-born, whether verbally, mentally, physically or sexually - all of which are crimes punishable by death._

_7\. The Lord's servants must never refuse a Raid directive nor allow their previous ties with the enemy's groups to cloud their judgement._

_8\. The Lord's servants must never ignore the Mark's call._

_9\. The Lord's servants must never miss their monthly appointments with their Superior and their Healer, so as to confirm their loyalty and continued subservience to the Lord._

_10\. The Lord's servants must never lie to the Lord, the Cabinet, their Superiors or their Squadron Members._

_._

**Any person accused of the listed crimes will be permitted to defend themselves before the Collective Public, in the presence of the Cabinet. However, should the evidence against the accused be deemed too strong, especially in the case of Crimes 4, 5 or 6, the Death Sentence will be implemented without trial.**

**Upon taking the Mark, each Death-Eater agrees and submits to the listed laws and other official decrees released subsequently by the Cabinet. No decree can be challenged once passed by the Dark Lord and any objection to the passed decree will be viewed as an act of treason against the Lord and all of his people. Such an act is punishable by imprisonment, if not immediate death.**

* * *

**A/N:** Lend me your thoughts, friends? Review, review, review! This is going to be a slow walk, I've a lot to learn. And a lot to share.


	2. part two: damage is like despair, without the feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She lunges forward, knife raised and jams it into his shoulder. Wild grey eyes snap up to meet hers, mouth forming a ghastly kind of O, sharp and painful and then...

**part two:** damage is like despair, without the feeling

.

"They're pounded into the earth

like nails; move an inch,

they are driven down again.

The earth is sore with them.

It is a spiny fruit

that has lost hope

of being raised and eaten.

It can only ripen and ripen.

And men, they too are wounded.

They too are sifted from their loss

and are without hope. The core

softens. The pure flesh softens

and melts. There are thorns, there

are the dark seeds, and they end."

 _\- C.K. Williams_ , _It Is This Way with Men_

.

"Torture forms part of a ritual. It is an element in the liturgy of punishment and meets two demands. It must mark the victim; it is intended, either by the scar it leaves on the body, or by the spectacle that accompanies it, to brand the victim with infamy; even if its function is to 'purge' the crime, torture does not reconcile; it traces around or, rather, on the very body of the condemned man signs that must not be effaced; in any case, men will remember public exhibition, the pillory, torture and pain duly observed. And from the point of view of the law that imposes it, public torture and execution must be spectacular, it must be seen by all almost as its triumph. The very excess of the violence employed is one of the elements of its glory: the fact that the guilt man should moan and cry out under the blows is not a shameful side-effect, it is the very ceremonial of justice being expressed in all its force. Hence no doubt those tortures that take place even after death; corpses burnt, ashes thrown to the winds, bodies dragged on hurdles and exhibited at the roadside. Justice pursues the body beyond all possible pain."

 _\- Michel Foucault_ , _II: the spectacle of the scaffold_ , from _Discipline and Punish_

.

 **Song:** A Big Part of the Sun by Delaurentis

* * *

Daylight breaks through the curtains in jagged shards, spilling into the room unhurriedly, without weight and golden.

It is somewhere between this spillage of light that her eyes flicker open, her body too in tune with a routine that she should have discarded weeks ago. For the first few seconds, there's a hazy sense of things - faces swimming up to her ceiling, Harry's smile so lopsided it seems like it might fall off his face, Ginny's hand in hers as they make their way down Oxford Street, Ron's hair in the sun - glorious, glorious - and she wonders if Harry will finally visit her now. There's a stunning sense of defeat when she comes to, shaking her head because _no no no no no no Harry has been captured, Harry is gone_ and she's not getting any fucking visits, she's not getting anything. Just the thought of it - the sheer reality of it hurts her head and she has to shut her eyes to keep from breaking down.

The bed suddenly feels cold and hard, an unwelcome rest - a luxury she should not be able to afford when there are so many out there, sleepless, homeless, without help or shelter, dying by the day - Muggles, all of them, her people, her people or people _just like her._ She keeps her eyes squeezed shut and turns to lie on her side, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood to keep the sobbing inside, to lock it up, to hold it off. Another day. Another false moment. It's how she always wakes up - thinking that she might _finally_ see Harry, or _worse_ \- Ron, before it dawns upon her. It's like being hit by a tonne of bricks, all at once, without warning. _Fucking_ hell it hurts. She draws her legs up to her chest in an effort to comfort herself, to remind herself - there's a mission, there's a brief, there's _something -_ there's hope?

A loud crashing noise jolts her out of her pathetic little trance- she's spurred to action in seconds, as if her body functions separately, without the tell of her mind and by force of habit, she reaches out to the bedside table as if to grab her wand. But there's no wand, there's no Magic, there's nothing. Again, that gnawing bitterness is at her throat and she cusses loudly, at nobody in particular, throwing the covers over and sitting up to attention. She will not be reduced by circumstances. She's Hermione fucking Granger - she can handle it. Somewhere, she wonders where Theo is- wonders if he's heard the noise too, if he's on his way like a good little watchdog. Just the thought of him prowling around with his fucking Magic makes her gut clench in fury.

She steels herself, getting to her feet and making her way to the window. It overlooks the front porch and extended lawn area, a perfect vantage point if there were any. Her breath smells foul but this is hardly the time to go _brushing_ so she tries to focus on being as quiet as she possibly as she can. Could the barrier have been breached? When Shacklebolt had left, he'd secured it extensively with Lupin. Could their Magic be so easily undone? A shiver curls up the back of her spine as she nears the glass, catching a glimpse of some _very_ familiar hair.

Silver-blonde.

Like Malfoy's.

Her blood runs cold and her heart is hammering - if, _if - if_ it's _him,_ then one of them is going to die today. Some distant voice in her head is telling her something but it's too soft, it's too soft over the roaring blood, the desperate beat of her heart. That is Ron's killer, out there. _If._ The figure moves and her gaze follows, her breath coming out shallow and haggard. She can feel her muscles tightening - she may not have a wand, she may not have Magic but she knows logically - clinically, that she _could_ kill him. She could _savagely_ hurt him. The figure turns, dark robes and pale, pale hair- indecipherable grey eyes find hers and she is sure that something in her snaps, because _it's him, it's him, it's him_.

Uncoiling like a spring, she's out of her bedroom in a whipping second, blind and thoughtless- her mind's eye fixating on the face she's spotted so carefully, so easily through the window. She almost trips down the stairs in her hurry, swearing profusely, every rational part of her over-ridden with the _sheer_ power of her grief, of the extent of her _vengeance._ Ron's killer is here. Ron's killer is here. The voice in her head grows softer, duller- as if being swept away under a carpet, muffled amid all the memories, all the blood thrown up inside her head - Ron's face gaunt and pale, bloodied teeth, broken nose, his limbs askew, all of him broken, all of him _dead._ She remembers it all, as clear as fucking day and it's this stream of images that propels her through the kitchen. She stops only a moment to grab a kitchen knife - it's there, at the countertop as if waiting for her and it feels solid, real in her hand. There's a mechanicality to her now - this is what she's thought of for weeks, silently and slowly, building scenario upon scenario, wondering how it'll be.

She has no wand. She can do no Wandless magic. None of these things matter. Only Ron, only Ron. And his killer, beyond this front white door.

The telling voice in her head is quiet - the moment before she yanks open the door, everything is quiet. Chilling. Birds chip beyond the house, uncaring. There's the drip of a tap somewhere, not closed too well. Her breath, harsh and grating. She can hear her heart drumming, can tell that her knees could give out any moment. There's an itch at the back of her mind that is muffled in the silence - but it's there, a rationality she ignores, because this _is it, he_ is _here_ and she will kill him. Or die trying. Whatever it takes. For Ron. For Ron. For everything.

She throws the door open and stumbles out into the bright of morning, dressed poorly in her nightclothes. None of this comes to her - only the dark figure stood a few metres before her, impenetrable, unmoving, untouched. It makes her furious - that _he_ can be so unfeeling when not even an inch of her is not thriving with a wild, animal energy. A fury. A hatred. Terrible and spiteful, all but bloody. Her hand is certain, fingers curled around the handle of the knife and because he hears her, because there's little else that could demand his attention, he turns around to face her.

She braces herself but nothing can really braces her for it - there, barely four feet away, Ron's killer. Right there. In the flesh, living and breathing. Immaculate to the T- his grey eyes as impassive as they had been on the day, his cheeks sharp and pale, his body lean and tall, his robes expensive and familiar. Just as he'd been on that day. The dark impossible thing inside her curls, snarling soundlessly as if baying for blood but she is far more calculated on the surface, still as undisturbed water, rigid, predatory. She could snap any moment- she knows it and from the shift in his stance, she knows that he knows it too.

He's not holding his wand - which seems strange to her but he could have mastered Wandless magic, for all she knows, given that he's been with the most cruel and most talented Dark Wizard of all time. She feels it in her bones - the sheer agony of losing Ron, of seeing him the way she did, broken over a set of rocks like a rag doll, bleeding at the mouth, lifeless, lifeless, without love, without warmth. She remembers how it felt - the numbing sensation that crawled up her spine, looking up to see Malfoy, Draco fucking Malfoy there, a ghost from school, standing over Ron's body. There. Impassive. Unmoved. Just as he is now.

He seems to know that she'll leap before she does because he squares his shoulders and then she's at him, screaming unintelligibly, knife raised. They both hit the ground, the force of her body driving him down. She's already trying to drive the blade into his face, shrieking wildly and the tears are blurring her vision, they're hot and blinding and she wants them to stop - she needs them to stop so she can see his face but his arms have come up to defend himself, forearms locked in a cross to keep the blade away. He's muttering something and before she can stop him, before she can do the damage, she's flung back into a sitting position, momentarily losing control of her body.

He's surging forward, growling something like _Granger Granger_ but she's past it all now - she's past it all now and she's pushing against the spell. She breaks it with a strength she didn't know she had and before she gets the blade anywhere near him, he's clocked her with a furious punch to the jaw. She's thrown back by the force of it into the mud, off his body and out of control and she senses him getting to his feet, closer and closer to control.

Ron, his warm, warm arms. His understanding smile. That goofy glint. The silver lining to all the carnage. Only to become part of it. Lying on waste and rubble. Lifeless. Lifeless.

Hot blood is pouring from the corner of her mouth and she's up quicker than him, she is because she is _unstoppable_ , she is _fucking unstoppable_ and she hears nothing, she hears nothing. All she sees is Ron's murderer- perfectly ugly and void of feeling, a ghost still, a ghost and just as he's straightening, she's kneed him in the abdomen. It's a hard surface and her leg tingles from the force of it but he's out of breath, stumbling back, disabled. She sees her moment. A shoulder unprotected. A moment. A chance.

She lunges forward, knife raised and jams it into his shoulder. Wild grey eyes snap up to meet hers, mouth forming a ghastly kind of O, sharp and painful and then the face is changing, the robes disappearing, swimming away.

Familiar brown eyes peer out at her from under a curl of dark hair, the face shifting, jaw curving and expanding slightly, mouth moving, robes switching to muggle clothes and she's staggering backwards, horrified, as if stabbed herself.

Blood is pooling at spot, darkening the white fabric and she spots the familiar tattoo at the juncture of his neck. She's stumbling back, her hands shaking as she looks down at them and then back up, the transformation complete and terrifying, unable to look away as if this were the scene of some car crash and the curiosity is a real, living thing, an itch.

Theodore.

Theodore fucking Nott.

"You missed, Granger," He mutters with a demented kind of smile, a strange picture with a knife lodged into his shoulder and then she's spiralling, so thoroughly mind-fucked that she falls back, panting.

The darkness sweeps in almost instantly, everything cut off into a web of complete, heavy silence.

* * *

When they come for her, she's ready.

She's sitting at the old dressing table, dressed impeccably in an expensive dress of grey organza. Her mother's pearls are locked around her throat, beautiful and ancient. She's even wearing short gloves, the exact shade of her dress. Her eyes are lined with heavy, black makeup and her cloak is draped over a chair to her right. Her shorter hair is left open, combed out to perfection, straightened neatly with one of the many, many spells she's cast tonight. Her reflection in the mirror is shadowy, parts of light and dark, illuminated only by the small candle to her left.

She hears them first. An organized march of six, like no other. It's a ritual with which she is familiar - not personally, no, but she's seen it over a dozen times at the Centre. She knows exactly how it plays out - the exact minutes of it, the banging at the door, the calling out of the name, the terrified and pathetic screaming, the binding of wrists, the dragging away. She knows it'll be different for her. Glancing at the Mark on her forearm, a forbidding and dark vision, a promise she's made for all the wrong reasons, she feels only the slightest trickling of fear - a wisp of it, curling inside her tummy, just a second of it. It makes her want to bite her nails but she keeps her hands folded over her lap.

They knock at her door. Three raps. Indicative.

"Come in," Her voice carries across the large room, quiet and in command.

She doesn't turn when the door is unlocked wand-lessly and they step into her space, into her sanctum. Lucius Malfoy is at the front, Bellatrix by his side and an entourage of four unrecognizable purebloods follows them. In her mirror, she watches their reflections move towards her, silently. It's almost like a dance- so gracefully and beningly done that she might be tricked into thinking they're here to whisk her off to some kind of dance and not to the Dark Lord. Lucius gives her a strange kind of smile, as if wondering why she's made such an effort to dress this way and look this way and she returns it evenly.

In a pit of vipers, she is just as poisonous as the rest.

Before they can speak, she gets to her feet carefully as if she really were preparing to head out for a dance. Something she might have done in a different life, as a different woman.

"Miss Parkinson," The Malfoy patriarch begins, his gaunt face an all too-familiar sight for her, the perfect cross between subservient lunacy and disarming calm. "This is unfortunate,"

Without waiting for her to respond, he nods at the four figures behind him and one of them steps forward, a tall girl with a grim face and eyes so dark Pansy would say they're black. The girl walks over to her in a precise, calculated manner and stops behind her. Mechanical, more like a machine than a human being, she takes Pansy's wrists and crosses them, tying the rope in a neat, orderly manner. As soon as the knot is made, the Magic hums into place and Pansy knows there's no way she can get out of these binds - the spell is powerful and draining, biting into her skin as a faint sting, even through the gloves.

The way Bellatrix is looking at her makes her skin crawl and somewhere she thinks she might feel shame, might feel something - given that Lucius Malfoy is here, no doubt burdened with questions about his son but he says nothing, only turns away and leads them out. The tall girl walks behind her, the other three fanning out to box her in. Her heels click on the floor and the Dark Mark on her arm burns, as the distance between her and the Dark Lord reduces, step by step, turn by turn.

They turn right from her room, Bellatrix trailing far behind as if to keep a watch on Pansy from the back. She can feel the older woman's gaze drilling holes into her back - she knows that if it were up to Bellatrix, as if it often has been, she would be flat on her back right now with the skin being pulled off her limbs, one by one. She's seen it. She knows it.

But Pansy Parkinson is different and it isn't up to Bellatrix, any more than it is up to Lucius Malfoy. They're only pawns in this game and she's playing one on one with the Dark Lord.

They walk her down the long corridors and faces peer out of the doors, eyes curious and fearful - a defection of this level is an infrequent as the stunning capture of Harry fucking Potter and all the eyes are on her, all of them. She wonders where her father might be - if he's been taken in too. That's a strange thought - despite everything, it makes her sad. She's sure Blaise is being brought in too from the other side of the building and she hopes that for his sake, he has handlers as obedient as her own. She's seen how often some of the older Loyalists have taken the matter of punishment into their own hands - Rabastan, for example, dropping bodies too broken to torture at the feet of the Dark Lord and earning a lashing himself.

They reach the large double doors of the Centre - the famed room, notorious for all the Dark Magic it contains. She feels that bare frisson of fear again, especially when Lucius Malfoy looks back at her with what seems like regret - she knows he'd once regarded her as a daughter, the counterpart to his son and it seems like a strange thing, that they should be here now, that she should be doing this. For the first time since evening came in, she lets herself feel helpless.

Once she enters this room, once she crosses over, there's little chance of her coming out of this alive. She knows it. Lucius knows it too. Her eyes hold his for what seems like a long, trembling moment and she feels a sob rising in her chest, rearing its ugly head in the form of a lump in her throat. So she looks away. She will not fail. She _cannot_ fail.

The doors are pushed open, loud and groaning, ancient and forbidding. She squares her shoulders, all too knowing of the impending punishment. Of the inevitable breaking. Of the certain death. Across the large hall, on the other side, surrounded by a similar set of four is Blaise, his dark skin glimmering in the amber light. She meets his gaze and feels the calm settle in, their promise between them, quiet and stunning, a warmth like no other. They're thinking the same thing, saying it over and over to themselves like a prayer.

_This is for Draco. This is for Draco. This is for Draco._

A loud warhorn is blown - archaic and medieval, fitting for the occasion. Then they're both being escorted in, their Dark Marks itching on their forearms and it has begun.

 _This is for Draco,_ Pansy thinks - perhaps for the last time.

* * *

"Should we have told them, do you think?" Neville's voice is uncertain, wobbling in the dark of the tent.

Luna looks to Ginny whose face is hard and grim and has been that way since Harry was taken. Something has left them forever, a kind of hope that Harry had brought with him. Luna knows these things, always has.

"Of course not," It's Dean who answers, leaning back in his chair in order to get a good look at Neville's stubbled face. "Nott was right there."

Ginny nods, a far-away look in her amber eyes. Her hair is still muddied and matted with filth- she's refused a bath enough times to make Luna stop offering it all. "If he knew we'd jeopardized Malfoy's life on purpose, he'd never agree to help,"

Neville looks uncomfortable - there's a distinct downturn to his handsome mouth that Luna's recognized. He shifts in his chair, glancing down at the firewhiskey in his goblet as if it might give him the answer he wants - the moral, ethical, _correct_ answer. It's a pity, she thinks, that he relies so heavily on wanting to be _right_ all the time. Luna's learned enough in the last two years to know that _right_ has got them nothing but death and misery.

"It's true, Neville," She addresses him directly because she knows he needs to hear this, needs to know why they're doing this and she has all the words straightened out in her head, in a clear, logical way. "Theo and Draco were always close, all through Hogwarts and even before. I think they may even have been lovers at some point," Ginny raises an eyebrow at that, but saying nothing. "So if you'd told him that we deliberately derailed his mission, ensuring a death sentence for him, Theo would turn against us quicker than we could blink,"

Her voice sounds musical, almost cheerful in the morbid heaviness of their tent and she finds Dean watching her curiously, as if trying to understand something about her. It's a look she's received for the most part of her life so it has no effect on her - turning her head makes her earrings jingle softly, another out-of-place sound in the tent. Fitting. Since she's hardly ever fit in anywhere.

"With a sure short sentence on his head, he's going to make his escape," Dean pipes up informatively, smiling back at Luna as if they might be discussing something as far-removed and distanced as a film plot rather than the real-life actions of a former classmate. "..And he's going to walk right into the trap we've set for him."

Neville looks like he might vomit at this point - a little bit green and dizzy in the face, and Luna wants to shake some sense into him because this heightened sense of nobility and _rightness_ will get them nowhere. They need to be ruthless, they have to be ruthless. The only way to survive is to be as _bad_ as the enemy. She knows it. It's been drilled into her head, further and further every time she sees a dead Muggle or a Resistance member, every time Lupin's forehead creases with sadness, every time Ginny's broken down in her arms, every time Dean's found her in the middle of the night and put his mouth to hers. She knows this and the fact of it lives hot and hard in her blood.

"He's going to seek safe haven with someone he thinks is an Ally to his cause. Someone he's been writing to for a while, someone he thinks he can trust," Luna continues quietly, patiently as if she might be talking to children and looking at Neville, she feels she just might be. "...When it's really just me. He's been writing to me and the address I've given to him is the address we'll be sending to Theo and..Hermione," Just saying the name brings back the memories - how she'd spiralled right out of control, lashing out at everyone, spells left right and center, damage after damage after damage.

 _Something not quite right about her,_ she'd heard Shacklebolt tell Lupin. Molly Weasley had looked aghast, having taken one of the spells herself.

 _Something unfixable,_ she remembers Shacklebolt telling Harry.

She remembers how Harry's shoulders had dropped, how he'd looked away. How he'd known. How he'd been complicit. How all of them were implicated in the locking away and de-Magic removal of Hermione Granger. She remembers all of it - the four of them around a fire, just like this one, tears pouring from their eyes, Ron's memory too thick and real to be dismissed, and Hermione's episode too terrifying to talk about. She remembers how something had been broken that day, when they'd turned so easily on her. But she remembers the pain she'd caused, how she'd lashed out. The way Harry had looked after it, like he couldn't remember something essential about himself, like he might have lost his way, like he might lose this war.

The absences in the tent speak for themselves and Neville gets up and walks out, without a word. Always condemning. Always judging. Never understanding. Anger flares in her stomach but Dean tips his head, as if warning her off. Not to be reckless. Not to say something. Now, more than ever, they need each other. She knows that. They all do.

"It's okay, Luna," Ginny's come to stand by her and she ropes an arm around Luna's slight frame, in reassurance. "He'll understand. Someday, he will,"

"Draco Malfoy killed Ron. He killed him," Luna mutters furiously, accusing. "How can Neville _still_ defend him?"

Dean's eyes are dark and she recognizes that senses of betrayed hurt in them because she feels it too. When he speaks, his voice is quiet and firm. "It hurts me just as much as it hurts you." He swallows, looking away. "..But we need each other, Luna. We need each other in a way we've never needed each other before and we cannot tear ourselves apart from within. Not like this."

She struggles for a moment, battling that restless sense of fury - unable to comprehend how Neville could still see something worth saving in a boy who picked the wrong side too, too long ago and committed to it so faithfully. There's nothing worth saving there, she knows that. Ginny squeezes her shoulder reassuringly again - she smells of bread and firewhiskey - and Luna looks at Dean, sat hunched in the chair, so close to defeat. Neville will come around, she thinks to her finally.

She'll make sure of it.

* * *

He buys a pack of Muggle cigarettes. Blaise had once told him that they calmed him down and despite Blaise's blatant dislike for Muggle things, he'd told Draco about them. Draco thinks that there must be something to that. It takes him a few minutes to figure out how to light one of them - he watches other men and women doing the same and takes his cue from them.

Striking the match, the offending Muggle object between his lips, the smoke puffing out. He remembers Blaise telling him about it- the strange dragging, allowing smoke to settle at his throat before letting it out and he tries to follow his memory of the conversation as best as he can. It's a cold, unforgiving night and he gets the hang of it quicker than he would have thought. The slow, strange rush to his head confirms why Blaise liked _this Muggle_ act so much.

His fingers are more practiced by the time he lights his fourth cigarette and they tremble less - as if the fear of everything is slowly disappearing. He watches the Muggle crowds drift past him, ignorant and inferior and he makes sure he's stood at a distance so none of them inadvertently brush past him. Somewhere, a voice in his head tells him that he's already _fucked_ Muggles so this pathetic distancing will do little to serve him. He doesn't even want to think about it so he forces himself back to this corner, watching the Muggle cars zip right past him in a blur of lights and sound.

The scene is surreal - he's yet to get used to the idea of cars or the technology that works them but he supposes that there is an aesthetic quality to this. An awful kind of beauty. The smoke ripples out in front of him- some Muggle woman frowns at him in distaste and he resists the immediate urge to shirk back into the shadows. It's the smoking, he tells himself clearly, calmly. Nothing more. Nobody here will recognize him. Nobody will.

When the crowds thin out and he's down to his last two cigarettes, when his coat feels like it might give in to the freezing wind and the shops to his right start shutting, he allows himself to think of Pansy. He's seen the ritual too many times not to know what will happen. He can see it playing out - an elaborate and macabre kind of performance, the powerful manifestation of Dark Magic riddling their bodies with afflictions so terrible they remain in the system for weeks after. If _he_ lets them live, of course. If _he_ lets them live at all.

He knows, at some level, that what he's done is cowardly. He's never been much more than that, has he? But Pansy would never have let him stay, not after that night. She would have thrown herself at the Dark Lord's fucking feet and confessed to his crimes before letting him take any responsibility for the things that had happened. Blaise would have gladly died alongside her, if it meant that Draco would have a way out. He feels a hot rush of hatred for himself - a sickening feeling that cripples him and he has to lean back against the brick wall to take in a lungful of air, to silence all of these voices, to point the accusations elsewhere.

 _This is the only way,_ she'd said. Over and over again. Pressing her mouth to his eyes. His cheeks. His jaw. His throat. His mouth. Over and over, like she might imprint the words into his skin, a better promise than the fucking Dark Mark. _You'll have thirty six hours,_ she'd said with a war in her eyes, _thirty-six hours before the spell is out and they can Trace you. You need to find the contact before the thirty-six hours are out. They'll be able to protect you. They'll protect you._

If there was anyone he trusted with his life - his literal life- it was Pansy. It would always be Pansy. Just the thought of her makes him sick and he's bowing forward, heaving, retching pathetically, because he knows, he knows, he knows what's going to be happening. Tears are blurring his vision and he's a small boy again, trapped in a room too big, in a role too big for him, so scared his body hurt with the sheer weight of the fear. He can picture it happening, in that large Hall, the two of them placed symmetrically on opposite sides of the Dark Lord.

Three recruits at each side, casting _Crucio_ together. The Dark Lord's face curving into a sick smile, absorbing all of the sick sick Magic in there. It's a dismal little competition, he knows- whichever recruit casts the most powerful spell, the most _meaning_ spell will take the Dark Mark the next day. A reward. Once they're through, once the two bodies are half-broken, half-conscious, blood trickling from noses or from the mouth, hair matted with it, eyes glassy and confused, the Dark Lord will step forward.

His Cabinet is the first row in the audience, impassive and shadowed, dressed impeccably. The ritual has been perfected over the many months and everyone has a role to play. Following the Cabinet are the three rows of Death-Eaters, initiated and loyal, flanked by the promising recruits and finally the last rows are of other allies, stragglers and young children, with their children. Some of the older families, with ancient and pure bloodlines stand side by side with the Cabinet - proud, fearless, unflinching.

They watch as the Dark Lord's face is deformed by sick smile after smile.

As blood colours the grey marble of the floor.

As body after body is broken, limb after limb twisted, invasive forces sent into minds, pulling memory after memory.

Scream after scream, clamours for mercy after mercy.

The mute audience, the Magical elite looking on, nodding. Approving.

He can see it all in his head, like some ghastly horror film - another muggle thing Blaise told him about - and his throat burns, either from the smoking or from the retching. He feels dizzy, light-headed, as if the ground might cave in from under him. Thirty six hours to make contact and find a way to not be traced. He's already twelve hours down. Twelve hours down. The number makes his head hurt and he wants nothing more than to ram himself into a wall just to stop thinking, just to make it stop, anything anything, _god anything to make it stop._

Pansy's face contorted in agony.

Blaise's arm bloodied.

He hates them for it. He hates them for making this choice for him. He hates the so much he thinks he might cry in sheer helplessness. Distantly, he thinks he probably looks strange- retching and crying on the side of a Muggle street. Not the most inconspicuous picture, not the most intelligent reaction. His lungs are straining and his throat hurts and he wants to hate his Mother too - for making them all do this, for binding them with this sick beautiful Magic. It takes him a long moment to come to, to finally draw himself together but he does it. He has to. He must find a way.

_Draco, here and always. I'm with you. I'm with you._

Her beautiful, sincere eyes staring into his eyes, brimming with tears. The two of them children again, racing through the Manor's gardens, laughing. Flowers in spring bloom, white and deadly. The two of them, speeding, hurtling, innocent and soft - without a fate to sever them so permanently. Just there, just free. It makes his chest hurt, to remember any of this but he does it. He does it so that the pain can bring him back. A sacrifice is never for nothing, Narcissa Malfoy had taught him and he would be damned before he failed his Mother or before he failed Pansy.

He yanks the coat into place against the sharp wind, catching the eye of a passing Muggle briefly - an odd moment - before he's turning swiftly and walking towards the bridge. Vomiting has made it easier- he can think a little now, specifically about Pansy's instructions about where to go. He pushes a hand into his pocket, wrapping his fingers around his wand. A last tether. A means. A life. He remembers Blaise's smile, painfully warm, a hand in his. Children again. He walks faster, taking in the beauty of the night begrudgingly - it's fucking Muggle London that's put him in this place so it makes it that much harder for him to like this place, to tolerate it.

A city that has ruined everything. A city full of all those beneath him. A city with blurring, beautiful lights, loud with laughter and love, thriving with a life he's missed. A city without war. A city with hope. He strides across the bridge confidently, pushing the last thought of _them_ out of his mind.

Only twenty-four hours to go.

* * *

Somewhere between the _crucio_ and the _legilimens,_ the mind-numbing sting of pain stops.

At her fingers, it drains away. At her toes, it ripples back up her calves and her thighs and lingers only briefly at her stomach, flaring _hotacidwhitesearing_ there before disappearing somewhere inside her. It trembles at her head, thick and raw behind her eyes, making it impossible for her to see anything clearly - it swirls at her mouth, bloody and disgusting before trailing down her neck, haunting her shoulders, the last of it breathing at her broken ribs.

Then, in a tremor, gone. Her body empty, spent, numb.

It takes her a long while to come to- minutes trickle by before her vision clears and she regards the ceiling with a bombed-out kind of detachment, unable to make too much of anything. Shapes detail the dark wall above her and try as she might, she _can't_ think. She _can't_ feel either. Some other-wordly force works on her, from the outside and she is moved to a sitting up position.

She takes in the audience, an army of indifferent faces and dark robes, muttering quietly. Something tells her that it is not over, that she is not over, that she's _still_ alive. She wants to reach up to her neck, to feel around for her pulse but nothing is working, nothing is working and her body is not her own. She feels blood trickling from her nose, spilling over her lips and down over her chin, dripping. Her head is held up with the same, external force - a spell not unlike the _imperius_ except she has some measure of consciousness.

Something. Just something.

Slow, dangerous footsteps make their way around her and the Dark Lord appears before her, a beautiful-ugly predator, nothing human, nothing at all. A heavy presence of deadly, deadly magic. She feels that - that's all she feels, that's all she knows. The heaviness of it. The danger of it. His eyes are distorted and his teeth glisten, looking so sharp that she suspects he might finish her off like some kind of animal, with his mouth. It would feed his Magic, the sheer sickness of it but there's no predatory feel to him yet.

Just a curiosity. As if he's trying to understand something.

When he speaks, his voice comes from somewhere far away - as if they were in a tunnel and he's stood at the other end.

""You're hiding something from me, Miss Parkinson,"

There's a slithering quality to his accusation and it wraps itself around her. She says nothing - her mouth is full of cotton and her mind is a disturbing blank, so dangerously excavated that it's possible that nothing can be returned to it.

"Do you know where Draco Malfoy is, Miss Parkinson?"

She feels the force at her throat, coiling, an invisible snake, tighter and tighter. Her vision blurs and she is lifted off the ground, her feet kicking. Choking. Sputtering. Struggling. Pathetic. Pathetic. Organza and eye-shadow, a broken doll, a sick show.

Her voice is nothing but a shuffling wheeze. "No….no...I-..."

His manic eyes find hers as if all this is some bizarre orchestrated performance and he's pulling at her mind again, clawing so hard it feels like her head might split apart. Then the pain is entering in a desperate rush, an overwhelming crash that is jarring and terrible and the hold on her throat tightens and she can feel herself leaving, she can feel all of her ready to depart. Split from seams. Spilling from her body. Out into the open. Destroyed.

His words come to her in a nightmarish dream, this is hell, this is her hell. "I believe you,"

 _This is for Draco,_ is the only thought she has before her body hits the marble and everything disappears.

  

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think so far?


End file.
